


Stuck

by Z_Publicizes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Poetry, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:24:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Z_Publicizes/pseuds/Z_Publicizes
Summary: Late season 12-ish, Sam POV.Lately, he's been imagining futures//which is a dangerous thing





	

  
Somehow, which is likely a coincidence  
but feels like history,  
if not repeating, rhyming,  
at the end of a devilishly difficult month  
they end up stuck in LA,  
or the outskirts thereof,  
at ten thirty-two am beside  
an empty beach,  
which has been cordoned off  
with hazard tape  
for reasons unknown,  
because it looks pristine,  
a glossy magazine spread,  
and there's no EPA suits  
or wildlife-wellfare reps in sight  
  
Dean's bopping in and out  
from under the hood,  
sweat trickling down the back of his neck,  
reddened skin of his nape glistening.  
He poured the last bottle of cold water  
onto the radiator over  
Sam's strenuous objection.  
Sam said it was long past time  
to call for a tow.  
  
Dean said there were some things  
they could still do for themselves.  
A choice of words that made this  
so much bigger than it had to be.  
Too much at stake now, nailing their feet  
to Dean's chosen course of action,  
the mechanics of which escape Sam,  
aside from the sacrifice of water.  
  
Parked in a dirt lot, shrugged off  
the shoulder of the PCF.  
Baking in sun,  
brain broiling in the heat  
bubbling up thoughts  
that turn his eyes heavenward -  
Sam asks himself  
in both the immediate  
and the existential sense  
where this is going.  
If there will ever be an end to this.  
  
Lately, he's been imagining futures,  
which is a dangerous thing,  
on a scale comparable  
to visions and holy missions,  
whispers of the spirit,  
an elusive glance of light.  
A burning bush, a cage.  
But he is thinking coldly now,  
in body counts piling up and up and  
weapons of mass destruction  
and the latest truth is  
that these are the most  
concrete things he knows,  
aside from the man and car to his back.  
Flesh and bones, asphalt,  
steel, and hot hard sun.


End file.
